He’d done his best to comply with her request, forming his lips into a straight line. But moments later, he was smiling again. Lilah shook her head and went outside to investigate whatever Zell and Cailey were up to in the Boyette backyard. They’d been outside a lot lately, busy as beavers. He supposed he should be neighborly and inquire, but he’d been preoccupied with thoughts of Jencey, coinciding with more and more memories of Debra and thoughts about it being over. He was, he knew, beginning to let his wife go. But letting her go meant he had to find her and do it officially, which was an idea that was forming more and more each day, almost independent of his conscious thought life. His subconscious was deciding for him: it was time to move on, to pronounce the time of death on his marriage and start living—for real—again.
He saw the SUV pull into his driveway and tried not to attach symbolism to its appearance at that moment. And yet, as Jencey climbed out of the big vehicle, he felt his heart lift and hoped that when she saw him waiting for her in the doorway, maybe hers did, too. He raised his hand in greeting, and she gave him that smile he’d been waiting to see, the one that made him think about a future apart from Debra, something he hadn’t thought was possible.
JENCEY
Jencey was on a rooftop with Arch, sitting at a café table overlooking a splendid view of the city below on a perfect day. Arch was wearing the dark-gray Armani suit she loved with a crisp white shirt and a deep-red tie. The gray suit complemented his starting-to-silver dark hair, and he was tan from a recent trip to Miami that he swore had been no fun at all. He couldn’t stand the clients, he’d said upon his return. She saw the lie but said nothing.
They sipped champagne, the bubbles tickling her nose as they always did, making her feel happy and light. He reached for her hand and took it across the table, trailed his fingers up and down the soft inner skin of her forearm, a signal that he wanted to make love later. She wasn’t even sure he knew he did it, but she knew his cues. She knew everything about him.
Suddenly a group of men in black suits surrounded them, guns drawn, shouting, “Mr. Wells, you’re under arrest!”
She began to shake her head no, no, no. This couldn’t be happening. They were having drinks before a lovely dinner in the restaurant downstairs. She was going to have She Crab Soup because she’d heard it was excellent there, and she loved a good She Crab Soup—the delicate meat, the rich, creamy broth with a hint of sherry—if it was made right. After dinner they were going back to their hotel to climb into bed. How could these men drag him away? What right did they have?
“Arch!” she cried, attempting to lunge toward him even though one of the men restrained her. “Arch, don’t let them do this!” He looked back at her, his face a mask of panic and terror. He turned from her and allowed the men to drag him away. She turned to the man holding her back and tried to look into his eyes, but the black glasses he wore prevented her from seeing them. She pulled them off, only to find that where eyes should be there were just vacant black holes. His mouth opened, and before she could scream, the man in black spoke to her. “Jencey,” he said. “Wake up.”
She opened her own eyes to find herself on Lance’s couch, her legs thrown across his knees with an inappropriate air of familiarity, Monty Python frozen on the TV screen. He stared at her, his brows knitted together. “Sorry I woke you,” he said. “You were having a nightmare.”
She sat up quickly and pulled her legs to herself, self-conscious. She blamed the wine they’d had before the movie started while the kids scampered around the backyard playing the same night games she’d once played in this neighborhood—freeze tag, hide-and-seek, capture the flag—the games made more difficult by the darkening sky. They’d drunk several glasses on his deck before herding the kids upstairs and into their pajamas to watch their own movie in the bonus room, freeing the two of them to be alone in the den. She’d felt loose and warm and comfortable when they’d started the movie, and between the darkened room, the cozy couch, and the effects of the wine, she’d started fading only a few minutes into the movie.
Still disoriented, she looked back at this man who was not Arch, blinking for a few seconds as she tried to recall what this nightmare had been about. What had been so clear and vivid minutes ago was quickly dissolving into a murky memory of disturbing images. The images faded, leaving behind feelings of threat and foreboding. It was always this way. Many of the nightmares were similar—she had a husband, and then he was gone. Her brain kept dreaming up a new and creative way to lose him. Though the dreams were different, the sense of loss was persistent.
“I d-don’t remember what it was about,” she said, hugging her legs to herself and looking at her hands, wrapped around her legs. “I just remember being really scared.” She felt his eyes on her, but she couldn’t look back at him. If she looked at him, she would spill the secret. And she didn’t feel ready to talk to this man she barely knew about the ugliest part of her life. She liked him and didn’t want him to think less of her. What if he, like Arch, thought she was somehow complicit in what Arch had done? What if he kept his distance from her once he knew the truth? This was hardly first-date conversation.
“Maybe you were dreaming you were a witch, about to be burned at the stake,” he quipped.
She laughed. That was the scene they’d watched just before she’d faded into sleep. She was grateful to him for lightening the mood. She liked him enough not to screw it up by draping her woes on top of their evening. “That was probably it,” she said.
And yet, he’d had no qualms in telling her that his wife had decided she needed time away from their marriage, walking out and leaving him and the children. What happened to cause her to do that? she wondered. She got the feeling he was leaving it up to Jencey to decide if he was at fault, to determine for herself if he deserved to be left. She studied his profile as he looked back at the image frozen on the television screen. He certainly didn’t look like someone who deserved to be walked out on. Does anyone?
She pointed at the TV, the image of a man on a horse banging coconuts together. “What’d I miss?” she asked. She forced herself to smile.
“I could easily rewind it back to where you fell asleep so you won’t miss anything,” he teased. He scooted closer to her and gave her what she guessed was his attempt at a leer, but with his baby face, he couldn’t quite pull it off. “Or . . .” He pulled her to him.
She let herself be embraced, let herself feel comforted by his arms encircling her. Counting the hug after the fireworks and the hug when she arrived, this was the third hug of their relationship. Was that what it was? A relationship? A friendship? Friends hugged one another all the time. She felt his eyes on her and turned her face to look back at him. The only light in the room came from the TV. Upstairs, from a distance and behind a closed door, she could hear tinny cartoon music. She wondered if they were still awake.
Reading her mind, he said, “I think they all passed out.”
She swallowed. “Oh.” She licked her lips one second before his lips landed on hers. The kiss lasted less than a second, no more than what she’d give one of her girls before bed. A peck.
He fixed her with his gaze, his mouth so close she could feel his breath on her lips. “Should I apologize?”
She supposed the right answer, the responsible answer, was “It’s too soon.” But she liked the smell of his skin, the gentleness in his eyes, the way the light from the television made everything in the room look blue.
“You really think they’re asleep?” she asked. She arched one eyebrow up—a talent Bryte had always envied—and wondered if he saw it in the dark.
He grinned his response. “Want me to go check?”